by Clee, Adele
Evan entered the room and found her gawping at the fire roaring in the grate. The room was so hot it was hard to breathe. His gaze drifted over her windswept hair, down to her wet cloak and bare feet.
Bare feet!
What the devil had she done with her muddy stockings? She must have removed them and stuffed them in a concealed pocket for fear of soiling his expensive Persian rug. Most women of his acquaintance would dart for cover, ashamed to have a gentleman see them in such a sorry state. Miss Hart didn’t give a damn. He liked that. He liked that a great deal.
“I see you’ve found your contract.” He breathed a relieved sigh upon noting the rolled scroll in her hand. “We have a lot to discuss if I’m to accept your case, Miss Hart. Though after such a dreadful ordeal, you need rest. Mrs Thorne will find a suitable room and arrange to have your clothes cleaned. I’m sure we can find new stockings somewhere.”
“Sir, I fear we have more important concerns than my stockings.” Miss Hart pointed to the empty space left of the marble fireplace. “The blackguard took advantage of the carriage accident to steal the painting of Livingston Sloane.”
“What!”
Shock stole the breath from Evan’s lungs. He covered his mouth with his hand and stared at the dusty mark on the wall. Guilt surfaced for the umpteenth time. The masked rider appeared more cunning than his usual foe. Yet he couldn’t have predicted Evan’s coachman would take Miss Hart home, or that he would mount his stallion and ride out into the night. The quick-thinking devil took advantage of every opportunity, and that made him unpredictable. Dangerous.
He stepped forward but was suddenly distracted by the fire’s amber flames. A toxic smell wafted from the grate, hitting the back of his throat, attacking his nostrils, forcing him to cough. Chunks of wood and broken board lay scattered amongst the glowing coals.
Merciful Lord!
Evan shot back. He gripped Miss Hart’s arm and pulled her away from the flames. “Cover your mouth, Miss Hart. Do not breathe in the fumes. The devil did not steal the painting of Livingston Sloane. He snapped it into pieces and used it as firewood. Quick. Help me open the windows.”
Miss Hart did not stop to question him, nor did she vocalise the crippling panic flashing in her eyes. She threw the scroll onto the sofa, darted to the far end of the room, dragged the heavy brocade curtains aside and raised the sash. Oh, there was nothing timid about this woman. Indeed, after tonight’s debacle, she deserved the moniker Valiant.
Wind rushed into the room, howling in protest.
“This window is already open.” Miss Hart’s comment came as no surprise. The intruder had to have found a way in without alerting Fitchett.
Evan joined her at the window so they might talk while inhaling fresh air.
“You were right, Miss Hart,” it pained him to say. “Right to voice your concerns, right in your belief that someone has learnt of our ancestors’ pact and wants to ensure we never find the supposed treasure. Forgive me for not taking the matter seriously.”
The lady blinked in surprise. “There is nothing to forgive. You acted as any man would when confronted by a stranger demanding marriage.”
A gust of wind whipped wet locks of hair from her heart-shaped face. It was then Evan noticed blood at the hairline near her temple.
“You’re injured.” His heart raced, though he resisted the urge to cradle her head and examine the wound.
Miss Hart pressed her fingers to the area and winced. “It’s nothing, just a scratch from a shard of glass.” She glanced at the spot of blood on her finger and wiped it on her cloak.
“May I take a look?”
Her eyes widened. “If you think it necessary, but I assure you, all is well.”
“Still, if we’re to work together, you need to be in optimum health.”
“Work together?” A weak smile played at the corners of her mouth, yet he sensed excitement rushing through her like a fast-flowing river. “You would work with a woman?”
He refused to work with anyone but his colleagues at the Order. And yet a small part of him wished to make amends for his earlier mistreatment.
“I’m a logical man, Miss Hart. Our combined efforts will bring rapid results.”
“Does that mean you’re going to marry me, Mr Sloane?”
Evan couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve made my views on marriage clear, though perhaps we might find another way to gain the third clue.” A mountain of questions formed in his mind, but they would begin their investigation in the morning. “We can discuss the matter tomorrow. For now, I wish to check your cut and hear your thoughts on the villain’s reason for destroying the painting.”
Miss Hart nodded. She bent her head. “See, it is just a scratch.”
A coil of desire swirled in his stomach as he clasped her head in his hands and narrowed his gaze. A different sensation filled his chest, one infinitely more worrying—an overwhelming need to play protector.
Hell! He must have inhaled the toxic fumes.
Evan tried to focus on the task.
“Ow!” she cried when he touched the small gash.
“It should heal perfectly well on its own, but you must wash it thoroughly before you retire tonight. I’ll have Mrs Thorne bring you some ointment.” He released the tempting minx and stepped back. “Now, tell me why you think the painting of my ancestor has been reduced to a pile of ash.”
He sensed an inner conflict. “I must confess, I’m unable to lie to you, Mr Sloane. Please know I dislike condemning those who cannot offer a defence.”
“Madam, honesty is a quality I admire. Speak freely.”
Miss Hart exhaled before saying, “I do not believe Lady Sloane, or Lady Boscobel if you prefer, cared for her son. I believe she cared about money and title, and so kept the painting because she knew it held a clue to finding the hidden legacy.”
Evan attempted to remain impartial while he considered her point. “And that is the reason you persuaded Fitchett to let you study the painting?”
“Indeed.”
“Did you draw any conclusions?” Natural suspicions surfaced. Would she have bothered coming back if she had gained the information she needed? Would she have found another way to obtain the third important clue?
The lady’s teeth chattered as she thought about his question. It occurred to him that her clothes were soaked, her feet cold, and she would likely catch a chill if she did not strip off the wet garments and warm her icy limbs.
“The first point to note is that the portrait was painted in 1756, and yet Livingston Sloane is depicted as a much younger man.”
“Vanity is a trait enjoyed by the masses. He wished to be immortalised as a handsome charmer, not a weather-beaten buccaneer.”
She wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered. “I think the date might be a clue to the meaning behind the painting.”
“And I think you need out of those clothes, Miss Hart, before you catch your death.” Evan strode to the bell pull and rang for his butler. He needed time alone to think and had to interrogate Fitchett while the man could still recall the night’s events. “Fitchett will escort you to your room. We can discuss the case in the morning.”
A pretty blush stained her cheeks. “I cannot stay the night, Mr Sloane.”
Evan arched a brow. “As you’re determined to marry me, Miss Hart, I don’t see the problem.” Indeed, he should be the one worried, worried the woman would force his hand. And yet for some unfathomable reason he trusted this less than timid wallflower. “Besides, it is unsafe for you to remain in Silver Street at present.”
“Oh, but I must return home, sir. There are—”
“A woman who rides astride can surely have no issue sleeping without nightclothes,” he said, anticipating her complaint. Indeed, he had no problem imagining the alluring scene. “Get some sleep, Miss Hart. We have work to do tomorrow and must make an early start.”
Fitchett’s timely appearance left the lady no option but to take her scroll and bid Evan
good night.
“Return to the drawing room once you’ve seen Miss Hart to her chamber, Fitchett.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the lady crossed the threshold, Evan released the tempest of oaths he’d kept at bay. It was easy to remain impartial when solving a stranger’s case, easy to maintain a facade for Miss Hart’s sake. But the masked devil’s personal attack had Evan seething. He stared at the space on the wall and let the unholy rage overwhelm him.
Once the anger dissipated, he would be left with the steely determination to catch the blackguard, regardless of the cost. Even if he had to shackle himself to a wallflower, Evan would have his revenge.
Chapter 5
“To whom does this garment belong?” Vivienne asked as the maid helped her into a pretty white petticoat with frills at the hem.
Having spent weeks following Mr Sloane about town, scouring ballrooms and listening out for the latest gossip, she was confident the gentleman did not have a mistress. Nor did he have a sister or aunt. Mr Sloane was alone in the world, except for a distant cousin who had inherited the Leaton viscountcy.
“I don’t rightly know, miss.”
Vivienne caught Theresa’s flush of embarrassment in the looking glass. “Ah, I see. One of Mr Sloane’s guests misplaced the item.” That explained why there was a spare petticoat and stays, but no shift or gown. She plucked the clean white stockings from the bed. “These are expensive, new.”
Theresa swallowed deeply. “B-bought as a gift, miss.”
“A gift for whom?” It was unfair to pressure the maid into revealing her master’s secrets. Besides, Vivienne suddenly found the idea of wearing clothes belonging to Mr Sloane’s lover rather distasteful. “Never mind. Are you certain my undergarments are ruined?”
Theresa nodded. “I’ve never seen so much mud on a petticoat, miss, and it’s ripped. Bessie has been boiling and poking it in the laundry copper for the last three hours. And your stockings are fit for nothing but the bonfire. Your dress is almost dry, but it smells none too pleasant.”
That’s what came from traipsing about in a field during a thunderstorm. “Thank Bessie for her trouble, but I’ve changed my mind and do not wish to wear another woman’s underclothes. Help me out of this petticoat, Theresa.”
“But the master said you were to wear the new stockings.”
“And have Mr Sloane thinking about his paramour during breakfast?” That was hardly conducive to her plan. “Speak to Fitchett or Mrs Thorne and explain the situation.”
Like the rest of the household, Theresa preferred plain speaking. Her lips curled into a knowing smile, and she set about undressing Vivienne before hurrying from the room to fetch the housekeeper.
Mrs Thorne entered the bedchamber five minutes later. “Good morning, miss.” Her wrinkled face exuded a wealth of warmth and kindness. “Theresa explained there’s an issue with your undergarments.”
“Yes, perhaps you might provide a solution to the dilemma.” Vivienne explained her problem. “I cannot wear my clothes and refuse to wear a courtesan’s discarded raiment.”
“Hmm.” Mrs Thorne pursed her lips. She studied Vivienne’s figure as if mentally taking her measurements. “The master will dismiss us all if you join him for breakfast wearing maid’s attire, and we’ve nothing else suitable. Might I send a footman to town to fetch clean clothes?”
Vivienne was already late. Mr Sloane had summoned her to the dining room half an hour ago. The man might be a libertine, but he behaved with the utmost professionalism when working on a case.
“There’s no time. The return journey takes an hour.”
The housekeeper gave a reassuring smile. “Mr Fitchett might have a few suggestions.” She crossed the room and removed a blanket from the armoire and handed it to Vivienne. “I shall be back shortly.”
Once again, Vivienne was left in the shift she had insisted on wearing to bed. She sat in the chair near the fire and waited. Mrs Thorne returned with Theresa, their arms laden with garments.
“We’ve a few choices here, though I’m not sure you will approve of Mr Fitchett’s suggestion.” Mrs Thorne placed the assortment of articles on the bed. “But he said you’re a lady willing to embrace a challenge.”
Vivienne took it as a compliment. She hurried to the bed and began sifting through the clothes. The thought of wearing the ridiculous garments warmed her insides and lifted her spirits, particularly when she anticipated Mr Sloane’s stunned reaction.
“Fitchett is right. Few women have the courage to wear these gaudy garments.”
Indeed, poor Mr Sloane was in for another mighty shock.
* * *
Vivienne burst into the dining room. “Do not take the trouble to stand, sir. I wouldn’t want you to suffer from indigestion.”
“You’re late, Miss Hart.” Mr Sloane did not look up from his newspaper, though it was evident he wasn’t reading anything of interest. “If we’re to work together on this case, know I shall not tolerate tardiness.”
He looked devilishly handsome with his hair tied in a queue and his cravat fastened in a fashionable knot—like the perfect present one longed to unwrap.
“Of course.” She smiled at the footman who pulled out her chair, though the distraction did little to calm the flutter in her chest. “I had a terrible time finding suitable clothes.”
The gentleman raised his gaze above the top of his newspaper. Any pretensions of appearing indifferent to her plight vanished. “What in blazes are you wearing?”
“This?” Vivienne stroked her hand down the embroidered pink waistcoat. “Yes, it’s a little garish. I heard it belonged to a libertine who attended one of your house parties.”
Mr Sloane threw the paper onto the table. The chair legs scraped the boards as he shot to his feet. “Madam, you’re wearing the clothes of a degenerate. And I do not care to be reminded of why I still possess Monsieur Lamont’s wardrobe.”
Mrs Thorne had told the tale with great delight. While highly intoxicated, and despite his small stature, the Frenchman had stripped off his clothes, bathed then piddled in Mr Sloane’s mermaid fountain.
“You’re somewhat of a conundrum, sir. You entertain debauched members of society, yet are shocked when they behave disgracefully. Mrs Thorne said you chased the naked Frenchman halfway to town.”
With a curt nod, Mr Sloane dismissed both footmen.
“Had I caught him in the act, I would have drowned the blighter.” He scanned her blue tailcoat and silver breeches. “If you think I am going to town with you dressed like a dandy, think again.”
Vivienne bit back a grin. “Then, I shall wait for you to change.”
Mr Sloane arched a brow. “Miss Hart, do not try my patience. Wear the popinjay’s clothes, if you must, but you will change the moment we reach Silver Street. Is that understood?”
Firstly, Vivienne was not in the habit of being treated like a child. Secondly, Mr Sloane did not make decisions on her behalf.
“You’re not my husband yet, Mr Sloane. And before you make the ultimate commitment, know you cannot browbeat me into submission.”
Mr Sloane dropped into his seat. “As we have already established, marriage to me is out of the question.”
“Perhaps.” Vivienne smiled. She hadn’t had such fun in years, though their situation was far from amusing. “Are you happy for me to serve myself, or will you ring for a footman?”
Mr Sloane gestured to the toast rack. “Do as you please, madam. I shall save my demands for the bedchamber, not the breakfast table.”
Vivienne swallowed to hide her nerves, but couldn’t let the comment pass without challenge. “Talk of the bedchamber must mean you’ve changed your mind about marriage.”
“While I might be opposed to marriage, Miss Hart, I find I’m not opposed to bedding you.”
Good heavens!
The sly devil! Illicit talk was an attempt to unnerve her, to force her to mind her tongue. Perhaps Mr Sloane was unaware the women in the Highlands
spoke more freely than their English counterparts.
“You surprise me, sir.” Vivienne reached across to take toast from the rack. “Not that I know much on the subject, but I was told men who focus on pleasing their partner make the best lovers. Those who make demands are often found to be boring in the bedchamber.”
Mr Sloane almost choked on his coffee.
“Might you pass the strawberry jam when you’ve recovered?”
“I can assure you, Miss Hart,” he began but paused to cough into his fist, “women find me anything but a bore in bed.” He pushed the jam pot across the table as though moving his chess piece into an attack position.
The urge to tease him took command of her senses. “Well, they would hardly make the complaint directly. Perhaps you lack your grandfather’s adventurous spirit.” Before he replied, she said, “And as an agent of the Order, I thought you would approve of my costume. After all, do we not want to throw the masked devil off the scent?”
Mr Sloane seemed more concerned about the slight to his prowess than the need to focus on the case. “Trust me, there is nothing tiresome about the way I make love.”
“Make love? The words suggest a meaningful alliance, a deep connection.”
“Oh, I can do deep, Miss Hart.”
Heat crept up Vivienne’s neck and warmed her cheeks. Still, she was the granddaughter of the hero who had saved his drowning relative. She had to say something to make it sound as if she were not floundering out of her depth.
“And yet from you, it all sounds superficial. Besides, when it comes to daring, sir, I am the one who braved the storm. The one willing to risk everything to find our legacy. The one dressed in ridiculous clothes because our mission is too important to worry about appearances.”
Mr Sloane’s intense gaze drifted from her lips to her breasts, squashed into the foppish waistcoat. “Superficial? Are you not the one demanding to marry a stranger? Perhaps this boring-in-the-bedchamber routine is a means to have me seduce you, Miss Hart.”
“Ha! Are handsome men always so self-assured?”
